


andante con moto

by almosthello, happinesssdeceit (crescenttwins)



Series: the prince and the paramour [2]
Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Asteria Formal Attire Sorey, Asteria Mikleo (Idol), Drabble, Flirting, Fluff, Illustrated, M/M, Nonsense, Shoes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 12:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16118519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almosthello/pseuds/almosthello, https://archiveofourown.org/users/crescenttwins/pseuds/happinesssdeceit
Summary: In private, Mikleo murmurs, “Sorey,” and watches Sorey’s bowed head jerk upwards, fingers stilling on the laces of Mikleo’s boots.





	andante con moto

**Author's Note:**

> did you think we forgot about this au? think again :^)
> 
> \----------------------------------------------------------
> 
> Title is from [Beethoven: 5th symphony, 2nd movement. Andante Con Moto](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EQIVWhKhwPA)
> 
> As always, clicking on the art will bring you to almosthello's Twitter moment of this au! Please give lots of love there as well. <3

The castle is structured chaos on a good day-- hundreds of moving pieces to make sure that the royals are fed on time and make the correct decrees; that warm baths are drawn before the request comes to a guest’s lips; that floors and walls and windows are scrubbed to shining; that a rotating cast of visitors from the town are brought before the king and pampered before being sent away. It’s exhausting on a good day, the kind that brings a dull ache to the body of a difficult job completed.

In the ever evolving infrastructure of castle politics, Mikleo has risen from a name muttered from painted lips after drinking to a tangible presence in Sorey’s home. There is a corner of the castle freezer dedicated to Mikleo’s culinary experiments; a small sign near the baths requesting that he does not wash his own laundry; a standing dinner with the royal family, regardless of who is visiting.

It’s a frustrating thing, his nebulous role-- the power Mikleo wields is not his own, but Sorey’s. And correspondingly, any shame upon him is shame upon the Crown Prince.

So in public, Mikleo keeps his clothing neat-- silk stockings under crisp white shorts, a black shirt buttoned to the collar with a turquoise cravat collected at the base of his throat, a white and gold suit jacket that has a feather brooch and chain combination that mimics his idol uniform’s at ten times the cost. He smiles at servants and nobility, even when they stare a moment too long or let their eyes linger in inappropriate areas. Mikleo plays the game of the court, lets flattery escape his lips as sincerely as he dares. He twists himself up in Glenwood’s history books, learns the law and what actions have merited war in the past.

In public, Mikleo is the ideal companion for a prince: pretty enough to draw attention, male enough to avoid bastard children, and submissive enough that he will never steal the prince’s focus away from his people.

In public, Mikleo smiles and smiles and pretends everything is fine, because Sorey is a warm line of comfort against his side, a sun that draws attention more efficiently than any other.

In public, Sorey brushes covered fingers over the bare skin above Mikleo’s gloves, gifts him with smiles and the barest attention before being called away (to bigger, more important things).

In public, Mikleo lets him go-- smiles at him and doesn’t let the eyes of the court find any flaw with his performance.

 

 

In private, Mikleo murmurs, “Sorey,” and watches Sorey’s bowed head jerk upwards, fingers stilling on the laces of Mikleo’s boots. He runs gloved fingers through neatly coiffed hair, ruffling the strands into something more unruly and familiar.

Sorey hums in response, leaning into the touch. If he weren’t kneeling beside the bed, Mikleo knows he would be brushing their lips together. Instead, the prince shifts his hands a bit higher on Mikleo’s legs to rub circles on silk-covered skin.

“Are you going to be playing with my boots all evening,” Mikleo teases, twisting a leg out of Sorey’s grasp.

“I rarely get to see you from this angle,” Sorey argues playfully, catches the leg and pins it gently to the side of the bed, so Mikleo’s legs are spread a little bit wider. He holds it there for a moment longer before releasing it to play again with the complicated knots of the boots.

“From below?” Mikleo asks, “Of course not, people would riot if they thought their prince was kneeling at the feet of a mere singer.”

“It’s none of their business,” comes the response, but it is apologetic-- the prince knows better than anyone else that public opinion is volatile. A sound of frustration, accompanied by a pout. “Why is it so difficult to undo these?”

“Lack of experience?” Mikleo laughs.

“If these require so much experience to unravel,” Sorey murmurs, settling onto his heels, “it is fortunate that blades can cut through such things easily.” He tilts his head towards his sword, set against the wall beside the bed. “Should I retrieve one?” His grin is wide, childish.

Mikleo pats his cheek, leans down to whisper, “I’d much rather you just ask for help.” Then he reaches downwards, tugs a strand on each boot and watches the knots unravel. “Next time,” he continues, letting his hand trace Sorey’s jaw, “you should be able to manage it yourself, hm?”

Sorey gapes at him, and Mikleo can feel the corners of his lips twitching into a smile as he sits up on the bed again.

“What? Mikleo,” Sorey splutters, “show me that again!”

“I showed you twice already,” Mikleo teases, “once on each foot.”

“How am I supposed to pay attention to your boots, when you’re so close to me,” Sorey whines.

“The same way you pay attention to conversation when eating,” Mikleo suggests.

The prince leans forward, presses his face against Mikleo’s thigh. “You’re much more distracting than food.”

“Am I,” Mikleo breathes.

A kiss to the inside of his knee. “Who put you in these,” Sorey says, hands stroking down the length of Mikleo’s legs. The calluses on his fingers snag lightly on the silk of his singer’s stockings, tickling.

“The tailor,” Mikleo responds, amused. “What’s wrong with silk?” Silk is expensive, luxurious fabric that flows softly over the skin-- of all the expensive things Sorey has insisted on clothing him in, the silk is his favorite.

Sorey pulls away, tugging at the stockings. “Silk discolors easily.”

Mikleo stares, feels his ears heat. He coughs, recovers, “Oh?”

“Indeed it does,” comes the cheeky response.”Particularly sweat, among other things.” The words are accompanied with the prince loosening the laces of Mikleo’s boots carefully. Afterwards, he cups the heel of one boot, tugs it forward and lifts Mikleo’s foot to rest of his shoulder.

Mikleo nudges him with his stocking-clad foot, wiggling his toes. “Finally.”

“One more to go,” Sorey says, as if Mikleo needed reminding, and bends his head to work at the other laces with clumsy fingers.

 

Mikleo laughs under his breath, holding his foot as still as he can. There's a tiredness to the motions of Sorey's fingers, a day's worth of exhaustion that lines his shoulders. If he squints, it looks like even his hair is drooping.

Sorey wrestles away Mikleo's remaining boot, and crows quietly in victory.

"Good work," Mikleo says, twisting his fingers into Sorey's hair. "What's next?"

The prince traces his ankle with a gentle thumb. "Hm, what would you like next?"

Mikleo hums, looks at Sorey's eyes, bright beneath his fringe. He leans forward, places fingers under the prince's chin to tip his face upwards. "I would like a kiss, I think."

Sorey surges forward, presses his lips to Mikleo's clumsily, messy. When they part, Mikleo wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tries not to laugh at how pleased Sorey looks.

Mikleo starts, "You should take off your--"

Sorey strips off his coat and gloves, fingers digging into his cravat to toss it aside, buttons coming undone beneath quick fingers. His eyes are fixed on Mikleo, and the singer can't deny the spark of desire at Sorey's eagerness.

When Sorey's fingers start to fumble with his own belt, Mikleo continues, "--shoes off."

Sorey freezes. Blinks, slaps a hand over his eyes as he goes just a bit red. The hand is removed, and Mikleo watches Sorey's eyes drift to the pile of clothing on the floor beside him. The prince pauses, shifts from his kneeling position to sit on the ground properly, start fiddling with his own shoes.

"Removing my shoes would make the most sense," Sorey laughs while he fusses with the laces of his boots. "Particularly if I want to join you on bed, hm?"

Mikleo leans backwards, catches himself on his elbows. He feels the shoulder of his jacket slip down. In the morning, he'll wince over the mess of braids and the crushed feathers, but right now it's difficult to with Sorey's eyes on him. He pulls his legs up onto the bed, lets silk slide against silk. "That would be the goal," he agrees.

Sorey groans, pulls harder at his boots. “You’re making it difficult,” he complains.

“Oh?” Mikleo teases, lets his legs fall apart. “Does this make it harder for you?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
